


Love isn't kind

by fundamentalnsfw (fundamentalBlue)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dubious Consent, F/M, Tentacles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-06
Updated: 2018-09-06
Packaged: 2019-07-07 16:04:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15911631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fundamentalBlue/pseuds/fundamentalnsfw
Summary: Prompt for tentacles. Not beta'd.





	Love isn't kind

Nothing ached anymore. The soft spots inside of her heart had done so many things; become hard, brittle, cracked, shattered and done it all over again. Through the weeks of initial torture, and when that ended, her self-imposed starvation that lasted a mere three days before her captor had taken measures to ensure she lived.  
  
Now she sat in a room, somewhere in Malfoy manor, barely examining the gilded collar of her current predicament.  
  
Wine. Rich food. A dress fit for a pureblood princess. A house elf that she’d long since not bothered to speak to.  
  
It was a game, and she’d win.  
  
On schedule, her jailor walked in and sat in the Louis XIII styled chair in front of her, the carvings the same as the ones at her back. She had long since ceased charting the slithering of the enchanted wood, the magical creatures carved there hunting and rutting each other across the landscape of the chair.  
  
“It’s going to get worse. He’s never been patient, but now- now his focus is back here. Not only does he have time for you, but I can’t protect you. Not anymore.”

She almost didn’t hear him, the white peacocks out the window didn’t have her mesmerized, so much as she had tried desperately to permanently shut down her higher brain function. Starve her mind where she wasn’t allowed to physically.

“Hermione.”

“Let him come,” she croaked out.  
  
“Her--”

“I _said_ let him come!” Her voice rattled, as she shocked both herself and Draco Malfoy with the outburst.  
  
His face was unreadable to her, another branch of her mind she’d pushed tightly into a box. There was no purpose in discernment.

The veil of her self-imposed silence pulled over her mind again, and she didn’t hear him slip out of the room.

 

* * *

 

 

When it hit her, she wanted to argue with herself that she hadn’t suspected it. That it had never occurred to her what he’d do.

But when he swept into the room, the palid grey of his skin and inhuman cut of his face had been replaced with luxuriously waved black hair and a darker grey of eye than the Malfoy’s.

And he was exquisite. More than, he was art, learning, achievement of all that wistful gloriousness humanity had hoped for themselves. A monster, a man, a lover.  
  
The cup fell out of her hand, potion soaking the carpet, and she went to him.  
  
Knowing.  
  
They collided with a crackle of magic that sparked through the air, and even as Hermione’s hind brain rhythmically pushed approval and _want_ into her, the mind she’d tried so desperately to bury screeched a staccato warning that it wasn’t real.  
  
Of course, none of that mattered. Not when his smooth, alabastrine skin met her own in a dance she’d never practiced but knew all the steps to, through him.

The way they made love put her outside the universe, all roads leading to her dilapidated soul, where the pieces were shoved up to the heaven and the light of him shined down and made them worth something again. She was Hermione Granger, and she was a warm cunt. She was the lover of the Dark Lord, and she was his slave. She was heartbroken, and made whole in him so many times that she prayed for the cruciatus and yet was _thankful_ for him.

He came.

He went.

He came back more.  
  
At times Draco was there alone, his eyes sharp on her in the moments between where she was whatever was left of the best friend of the Boy-Who-Lived, the brightest witch of her age, or a soldier in a war. So many now meaningless titles and roles.  
  
She didn’t want to see the pieces of her fractured self heavy in his gaze, so they only spoke bromide words to one another, each less vapid and skirting the truth than they wanted to be.

 

* * *

  
  
In time, she knew that she loved him.

The potions stopped, and the way he slid his sinuous body over her corseted back before rucking up the expensive gowns he dressed her in and making a fulfillment of her, did not.

In the end, Hermione knew he didn’t trust her, not truly. But the same lizard component of her, the betrayer of all that was Hermione, whispered _run._

And traitor to her heart, she did.

A few weeks after the wards dropped on her room, because they thought her tame she supposed, she was tearing through Malfoy’s exceedingly gorgeous and well-maintained grounds, her skirt shorn off some ways back and tossed into a picturesque looking pond.  
  
Her method, if she could be said to have one at all, was to avoid any area that looked wild or too beautiful to be trusted. Like Tom, in all ways. Her heart clenched.  
  
It was some plant, some unnamed type of vine lush with foliage and surprisingly soft, creeping arms that apprehended her. The old Hermione would have wondered if Neville knew what kind it was. If there was some form of magic or behavior that would make the thing let her go.  
  
Instead, she thrashed mightily against it as it wrapped and pulled at her limbs. She grabbed her own hands together, hoping to stop its tugging from making her spread wide. It wasn’t meant to be, as the soft pops of apparation filled the air and she hung suspended and spent from fighting.  
  
Maybe it would have let her go if she’d just stayed still. She’d never know.

“You shouldn’t have run.” Draco said lamely, as he flanked the Dark Lord. He looked disappointed, now. She was shocked she could see that he had feelings on the matter at all.  
  
Tom considered her for a moment, his eyes assessing her form for injuries. _How very muggle of him to not use a diagnostic spell_ , she thought with a mental sneer.  
  
When he was done, he approached, his mien a mockery of what it was to be wounded by someone he loved. The plant tightened its grip and pushed her down and forward to him, a prize.  
  
They all waited, tense, for what Tom would do or say. Even the Dark Lord was caught up in his own miasma, his eyes dark and searching.

“Do you love me, Hermione?” She didn’t dare look away.

“No.” He was cold, but she could be colder. She’d learned it from him. 

He sighed.

“Why do you look so beautiful when you’re deceiving me?” His hands began to wander her, gripping and tearing pieces of asymmetrical cloth off her body. Her tattered left sleeve, the remainder of the waistline that was her skirt. It was intimate, invasive, the casual way in which he owned her.

“I _never, never_ was beholden to you.” The words were venom, watery and spat into his perfect face. 

“We both know what is real, don’t do either of us the discourtesy of lying to my face.” Draco shuffled slightly, and she made every effort not to look at him, but failed to keep her eyes from flicking to his form, only a moment.

Tom seemed to ignore it, and instead of feeling relief, she felt stark fear for the first time since she’d attempted to escape. Tom didn’t miss details.

“I loved you to save myself.” She whispered, pleading. 

Despite everything, she longed for him in all ways. The darkness of his magic pulsing through her. The potential for good inside him she still saw and hated herself deeply for having to acknowledge, and hope for. But especially she loved that he knew who Hermione Granger was up and down, backwards and sideways and he _did not look away._  
  
He snatched her face between his hands and spoke with conviction, shaking her from indulgent revere.  
  
“No, you loved me to destroy who you used to be.” He released her and pulled his wand out, casting at the plant with a determination that gave Hermione of a spike of joy. She could die here. Once and for all he could kill her and she’d be free from loving him.  
  
Around her, the plant’s vines thickened, fed by power, intent and magic. It changed, before their eyes, and Hermione saw the potent effect of those consequences through Draco’s expression.  
  
The Malfoy heir turned to leave, his cheeks crimson and body stiff.  
  
“Stay.” The Dark Lord commanded. Draco paused, and turned around, his head bent low.  
  
“Look.” Around her, more arms shot up from the soil, warped and coiling tendrils that were green and leave-less. Blunted tips with no discernible bud at the tip.

Hermione watched Draco, uncaring of Tom’s wrath. Draco looked forward as penitent as he was sinful. Because of course, _of course_ Tom knew. He'd always known, wielding lust and love potions as a double edged blade to torture a prisoner and ensure continued ownership of a follower.  

This was punishment, redemption for all of them, a telling of the truths between them. So she stared at Draco, the man who would have let her go a long time past, and knew that Tom was aware of her staring. That he'd maim them both; no sense in prolonging it or pretending it wouldn't happen.   
  
Slowly, so gingerly that she didn’t quite catch it at first, the plant brushed against her. Skin tingling, she shied away from it as best she could, its touch feather-light and too sweet for something non-sentient.   
  
Then it grew less subtle, as the vines caressed her with casual ease now, all over her body, indiscriminate. So soft and sweet, more lovely than Tom's touch could ever be, he who was the fire in her very own veins that she couldn't put out for the life of her.   
  
With blinding lucidity coming over her, she understood.

“No, Tom, _no_ \- what is this- this thing?! You can’t- you _won’t- Tom!_ ”

His hands grasped her face, palms running smooth down her cheeks as he shushed her quietly. Hermione quaked to see beneath the layers of tactics, unadulterated emotions lay exposed to the bone in his face. Something lived there, quietly slithering about. Not a thing she had ever wanted to know existed. No- no. She didn't dare look at Draco, but it didn't matter. He saw and saw and saw, his hands dropping from her face with calculated disappointment.   
  
“My followers assume I have no use for forgiveness. But for you, I can do anything. Even the discipline you require is a gift. You will appreciate this.” His confidence was poison to her. This was abhorrent, a filthy cruelty she’d wish on no one. To be wanted like this was beyond crime or sin, as wrong as a horcrux and as impossible to kill as a dementor. 

“I don’t want this, please, not here Tom. I’ll go back, I’ll take the cruciatus, whatever you want, but please, _don’t do this._ ” Begging had never been beneath her. Even when Mulciber had hit her with her first pain-curse the night she’d been captured, she had plead and cried, admitting on the spot that she had stolen her magic, wasn’t worthy, her blood unclean. The satisfaction of those words being spoken to a Death Eater hadn’t brought her end, and even though her current burden of feeling for the Dark Lord should have given her a clue as to why she hadn’t been a blood stain on the stones in the bowels of the manor that night, it was only now that she comprehended. 

She would never go home. Never would she die by his hand or another of his tools. Inside his wretched heart, Tom _loved her._  
  
As gently as the _thing_ he had animated, he cosseted her, long fingers fluttering over her skin reverently while Draco looked on. Her lips worked, but there was nothing to say. Delicately, he rubbed her lips with an affection she had never seen for what it was;  _real._  

“You understand now. Accept this, then. Take what you deserve, and after, we’ll not speak of it again.” She whimpered, defeated in all the ways that mattered.

Carefully, she nodded her assent to the Dark Lord, and braced herself.

A flick of his wand and the tentacles flowing around her became purposeful. They pulled at her outfit, removing the tight corset with a tenderness that could only be driven by Tom. His eyes glowed with the magical exertion it took to orchestrate such a thing, wand now safe within the folds of his robes. 

It was impossible to not make eye contact with Draco. In the time he had been forced to stand and watch, his face had slipped into an implacable mask that some part of Hermione whispered to herself, wasn’t as strong as it seemed. His eyelid twitched when the vine swiped at her now bare cunt and moved itself to gently circle a nipple.  
  
When the ends of the vine began to ooze a viscous liquid, Hermione released her first moan. It was no different than torture. There was no shame in breaking. Everyone broke.

Then why did she feel such self censure?

This wasn’t the first mudblood Draco had watched violated. She was one in a string of many.

And yet.

Her body was slowly becoming slick with fluid and there were parts that were butting up against her anus and labia, circling, waiting. Each brush against her ass reminded her that Tom had never taken her there, not once.  
  
It began to twist at her nipples, the vine impossibly contorting to pinch them pink, then red, as she moved past the point of her endurance for having them touched. Crying now, reflexive tears fell down her cheeks as she writhed away from the pressure, helplessly. 

As intense as Tom’d been when he fucked her, he’d never spent much time working his mouth over anything other than her clit and cunt. Yes he’d plucked her nipples, played them as though they were a single instrument in an ensemble of many. His focus had been her, their pleasure, and lastly, him. The generosity of his sex wasn’t lost on her.

But now. Now he had all of it, all of her, at his disposal. How foolish she was to think he wouldn’t take everything else from her too.

The worst was when she begged him more, to let her go, he didn't ignore her pleas, oh no. Instead he was fascinated, vision riveted on her wet cheeks, like he wanted to taste her tears and all the want she had for him to free her, and quite possibly glut himself on it. As if he could fuck himself through a river of her self-loathing and find his own freedom at the end. 

She reflected that it should have hurt more by now, judging from how hard the vines were squeezing at her breasts and undulating at the tip of them like- like milking. It must be the liquid that the plant was pushing out over her, and at a particularly sharp tap on her clit in tandem with a tight suction sensation on her chest, she groaned gutturally.  
  
Tom was still now as she watched him, his eyes hooded.  
  
“She’s lovely, isn’t she.” He said flatly. Hermione barely heard him at all, her whole body being massaged and cradled by magic, a languid orgasm building despite herself.  
  
“Yes, my Lord.”  
  
“Even when she’s being punished, fucked, she never stops being infuriating and entrancing in equal measure.”

Draco was silent. There wasn’t anything he could say that would be the correct answer.  
  
Tom responded to the quiet by twisting a hand in the air.  
  
Hermione choked out a scream as a tentacle pushed itself inside her cunt, and was cut off as another tentacle thrust into her mouth. At first, they fucked her in tandem, one wet tool plunging into her throat as the other left her open, gaping, only to pull past her lips with a pop as the other buried itself into her much the same as Tom would fuck her.  
  
But Hermione wasn’t here to just be fucked. Tom loved it when she was complicit, and soon the harmony changed as the vines wrapping around her limbs began to pull her up and down on the stationary tendrils. They fucked her face onto the plant’s unanticipatedly life-like cock while she fucked down onto the other cock, so similar to the way she would ride Tom. All the while the buds of her nipples were taut and pulled this way and that.

“Watch as I remake her anew for me, Draco.” He commanded.  
  
The tentacle in her mouth limply pulled out. The one in her cunt stayed, pumping persistently inside her, working her over until she wondered if this is what a whore felt like, taking it again and again without cessation. 

Tom stepped forward then, and shucked his robes off with grace befitting his physical allure. Wizarding kind in general had less shame, and Tom had the least to be ashamed of, his new body all sinewy grace and marble angles. The statue of David, come to life to stalk her waking hours and dreams.  
  
As he walked around her, the tendrils supporting her shifted and moved, each piece slipping around Tom to bear her weight as he moved to stand behind her. When his lips met the curve of her neck, she felt her orgasm bear down on her, heavy as a storm, robbing her of fear and the need for any dignity.

She moaned, loud, uncalculated, and it was hoarse and ugly as it was drawn out of her. 

Still, she was fucked more, the slickness of her own spend squelching up into her body.  
  
Tom had done something, to make his touch so potent. But then again, Tom did many things, and she couldn’t concern herself that this might be the end of it. No. She knew it wasn’t over.  
  
Draco looked frightful now. Pale, and drawn, his eyes flicking up from her body to meet her own. The man, who she would have never pegged as caring about anything but his own selfish ends, flinched.  
  
“You understand now, don’t you dearest? You’re not for him. You’re not for anyone else.” She gasped and almost orgasmed again when his thumb pressed hard into the bud of her ass, circling the puckered flesh possessively.  
  
“I’ve been so patient, but I’ll not deny myself any longer.” Abruptly he pulled his hand away and replaced his finger with the tip of his cock. It probbed into her, and she tried to clench instinctively away from him.  
  
“Always difficult,” he murmured. Again his fingers returned to her ass, this time his index pushing past the tightness, and twisting into her.

The second orgasm was tense. Taut with the early-ness of it, it took her like a strained muscle; pained and tight. Another finger was added, while she whined. 

“Please Tom, I can’t bear another, please.” She begged.  
  
“Yes you can. You’re capable of so much Hermione. Let go.” Three fingers deep, they twinned about in her, sending spasms of pleasure each time they stretched her tight sphincter. When he removed them, she _ached._  
  
And when they were replaced with the head of his cock, she almost wept with relief and anguish. But instead, another orgasm rolled over her, this one like rubbing a sore muscle. Uncomfortable, and too good to stop.  
  
Her body loose but for being held up by the plant, her mouth offered no resistance when a tentacle slipped back into it. She sucked on it as it nuzzled her tongue, feeling clouded, her consciousness being inexorably pushed under. All there was, was Tom, and how he was filling her, filling her all the way up inside, with his magic, and cock.

It took very little time before Tom and his Dark Magic plant found their stride, each pumping into her in sequence before pulling out and leaving her so very _empty, bereft._ All she could do was keen, a broken thing, when he left her, and whimper her passion when he returned.

If she’d been more aware, she’d realize that she was crying from cumming hard, again and again. And that Draco was observing his Lord, rapt with attention as he fucked a woman he too, could have loved. Maybe he did. Even after this. Maybe more than he did before. 

Tom muttered spells behind her, not pausing for a moment in his brutal taking of her ass. His cock pressed in deep, butting up against the tentacle in her cunt with a delicious friction between her walls that Hermione had never experienced. The base of him, when he pressed all the way in, spread her wide, vulnerable. She loved it, and him.  
  
When the tentacle in her pussy was squeezed to the side to allow another to enter her, Hermione didn’t think of the consequences. The tendrils switched from moving in rhythm with Tom to hammering at her with no conceivable pattern. She’d orgasmed too many times to count, but each one was pain, was Tom’s love made absolute. He was stripping her away; there was nothing left but this.

She wondered if she was always meant for him. 

Tom’s cock went rigid and he pressed against the boundaries of the thin tissue in her ass as he came, a liquid rush that swept down the length of him and spilled out of her when he did, before he rammed himself back in. Hermione squealed around the vine in her mouth, while Tom lazy plunged in and out of the mess he’d made of her.  
  
“You’ve been such a good girl, Hermione. So good, and sweet letting me take your arse. Letting me stuff you full. You love how dark magic feels don’t you, when it’s fucking you, ruining you. Tell me you love me Hermione.”  
  
“I do Tom, I do, I love you, it’s unbearable, and I can’t stop. Even when you do this.” Her mind felt the slight brush of Imperious, enough to compel the truth on a person who had little resistance in the moment. She hated that she wasn’t lying.  
  
“Do you care for Draco, too?”

Everyone breaks.

She sobbed.

“Yes. Merlin, yes and fuck you Tom. Don’t make him, _don’t-_ ”

“Shh, I wouldn’t.” And with that, the plant became lax, slipping out of her used cunt and releasing her to the ground. Tom caught her first, holding her tenderly in his arms. 

Try as she might, she couldn’t not look at Draco, who was shaking with terror. They both knew the stakes.

“You may go, Draco.” Tom was cleaning her now, his wand removing all dreck from her body, and leaving it all on her soul. Draco turned on his heel and popped away. 

It was a game, and she’d lost.

After that night, Draco’s face never stopped haunting her; it was his home, and when they were in the same room, they inevitably relived these moments in snippets. The tragedy wasn’t what happened between the three of them. It was war; savage emotions and their explosive outcomes were expected. Sex was rampant with use of Dark Magic. It wasn't the last time Tom took her in front of Draco, but it was the first and the most potent. Thereafter, every time Tom met Draco's eyes while he pummeled into Hermione, it was a reminder, a warning.

What hung between the three of them, the shroud of agony two of the three lived under, at the pleasure of Tom, wasn’t sex.  
  
The question between them, the one that had been mutely answered that night, one that all parties were unsettled that it was true, was _“Do you care for Hermione, too?”_  

 


End file.
